The Odds Were Not In Their Favour
by Katie1995
Summary: Multi-chap! Effie Trinket isn't all what she seems. Why does Katniss gain such a strong reaction from Effie with her tatics before the gamekeepers in Catching Fire? Can Katniss truly ever understand the people around her? Please R&R!
1. The Odds Were Not In Her Favour

**(A/N – I do not own the characters or **_**The Hunger Games **_**in any way, all rights are reserved to **_**Suzanne Collins**_**.)**

**The Odds Were Not In Her Favour**

**Katniss' P.O.V.**

I sit awkwardly at the table, reciting Peeta's words. _"__Actually, I painted a picture of Rue." _Now, with all eyes trained on me, I swallow difficultly under Haymitch's glare. Twirling the edge of the napkin in my fingers, I try to keep my eyes focused on the flowery patterns inlaid in the red napkin.

Sighing, I let myself say what I had done before the gamekeepers. "I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it."

Silence ensues, and I can see the disapproval painted plainly on their faces. Even Cinna is disappointed with me, and suddenly my heart drops to my stomach and my hands become clammy.

"You... hung... Seneca Crane?" Cinna's words linger in the air as I try to think of a logical reply, which of course, I cannot.

So I just answer simply, "Yes. I was showing off my new knot-tying skills, and he somehow ended up at the end of the noose."

Effie's looking at me, but her eyes are unfocused. I'm not sure whether her make-up – eyeliner to be precise – has made its way into her eyes, or if, which I'm sure isn't the case, she is tearing up. Effie's hands are below the table, but I see Cinna's hand go towards her own as he clasps it in his huge, caring grasp.

As if realising she's frozen, Effie makes herself speak again, her jaw still tight as she whispers the words out. "Oh, Katniss," says Effie in a hushed voice. "How do you even know about that?"

But anger replaces regret, and I look Effie directly in the eyes, replying in a casual fashion. My words must come out too harshly, as I can see her face retort painfully as I respond to her question, "Is it a secret? President Snow didn't act like it was. In fact, he seemed eager for me to know."

The napkin she was gripping to under the table is brought up to her face as she rises from the table and out of the dining compartment. I follow her figure down the rocking carriages until the lights drown her figure in the yellow hue and she disappears from sight. The guiltiness I didn't want to feel drowns me in its hold as I force feed myself through the rest of the meal, looking up now and then to see if Effie will rejoin us, which no matter how hard I wish, she does not.

Feeling deflated and more apprehensive than ever before, I place my spoon down beside the bowl that holds a small trifle. I am not in the mood for eating, and by the looks of it, neither is Peeta anymore. Portia is picking at the custard top of the trifle, her eyes darting around the table at both me and Peeta alternatively. Cinna's leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest as he examines my composure.

"Come on," Cinna says gently, "let's get those training scores."

I don't want to watch what scores they have for me, but I sit before the TV anyway. Portia keeps glancing sideways towards the door and I can see she's agitated.

As if on cue, Effie rejoins us keeping her head down to hide the red rings around her eyes. My heart jumps into my throat, but I don't say anything to her unless I upset her any more. Cinna places a soft hand on my tense shoulder, but keeps his eyes on Effie who has now drawn her knees to her stomach and placed her head on Portia's shoulder. Portia strokes her hair, like I would do to Prim in a comforting fashion when trying to calm her down. I don't know whether she's distraught about our actions or concerned about her position. All I know is that I've overdone it this time.

Staring back at the screen, mine and Peeta's face pop up clearly. District 12 is in bold letter that trail across the bottom of the screen. Then our scores fade into view and the impact takes my breath away. Both Peeta and I look to each other in shock and doubt as two twelves pop up on screen.

Hunger Games History. That's what we've made tonight.

"Why?" I ask, my attention now turned on Haymitch. "Why would they do this?"

"Because they need a target," replies Haymitch matter-of-factly. "You're the target, girl on fire." He alternated his stare between Peeta and I before his eyes settle on Peeta's face. "Lover boy, too."

I scowl at him which is returned with a sly smile. Effie, now appearing calmer, talks softly, her anger now evaporated

"I think it's time you two go to bed. After all, you both have a "big, big, big day tomorrow." Peeta rises, taking my hand in his own as he pulls me up with him and we walk silently to our quarters. He's about to turn away and retreat to his own room when I tug him back.

"Stay with me tonight?" The questions seems shy as it leaves my lips, but he smiles kindly at me, pulling me into his arms and resting his cheek on my head.

"Nightmares?" He whispers.

"Nightmares," I agree, knowing we both got them after the first games.

Letting me go, I step back slightly. "I have to do something first," I blurt out before Peeta steps away from me again.

"Come and find me when you're done, Katniss. You know where I am." I nod, letting his hand fall to his side as I let go before making my way down to Effie's sleeping quarters.

I know she's wake because of the soft light illuminating her compartment. Soft words are being exchanged and I know no-one's in her room but her. Curious, I peer through the ajar door, to where I see a smaller version of the plasma TV in the viewing room on her wall opposite her bed. A young woman sits on the edge of the bed. Her hair is absent of her wig and her natural mousy blonde hair runs freely down her back and over her shoulder blades barely covered by the thin straps of her nightgown. Her face is soft in the light; now free of make-up her face is crimpled with grief as she stares blankly at the screen, her eyes wide as she basks in a man's voice I recognise albeit with difficulty.

Young. I realise Effie Trinket looks very young. Maybe late twenties, early thirties. Without all the Capitol's merchandise, Effie looks almost vulnerable, not at all like she is in the presence of her two tributes – or anyone for that matter.

The screen flickers to the next clip and I see the images reflect of her face. Tears roll silently down her cheeks as she sits paralysed on the foot of her bed, her arms wrapped across her torso.

I hate intruding in general, but this was Effie. In barely three days time she'd be betting on whether we lived or not.

The man on the screen looks eerily familiar. It's either his beard or his face, but then Effie's high trilled voice booms from off screen as she calls the man to her. "Seneca!" My blood runs cold and a cold sweat breaks causing beads to dot my brow.

How did she know him?

"I know you're there, Katniss," Effie calls softly from inside her room. "I may be Capitol cultured, but I'm not stupid." She sighs, but makes no move to me or to wipe her cheeks of the tears that stream down them. "So come in if you must, girl on fire. I know you're dying to know about this."

A frown pulls my brows together and a grimace twists my lips down. "Seneca Crane?" I ask, suddenly, pushing the door slightly so it wasn't fully open, just enough so I could squeeze through. Effie doesn't look up, just looks on.

"Seneca Crane," Effie repeats as he arms hold her tighter.

Her grief is causing my throat to constrict, but I refuse to cry. I hop from foot to foot awkwardly as I stand slightly in front of the door, ready to leave if need be. Effie pats the space next to her, saying nothing to accompany her gestures. I accept the gesture and sit shoulder to shoulder with her now, watching together as she watched the footage continue on.

Seneca's got his arms wrapped around Effie's body as he swings her around in a circle, laughing and smiling. Her natural hair is flailing around her heart-shaped face as a broad smile crosses her lips, her own laugh echoing his. She's so happy, it almost hurts.

"Why do you watch this if it hurts you?" I ask. There's no resentment or anger, just concern lacing my words now.

Effie glanced at me before he eyes wandered again to the film. "Because I'd rather remember him like this," she breathes, her voice cracking slightly. "Not some bloody pulp lying in a pool of blood."

I catch my breath as the next clip emerges. Effie's lying propped up on a hospital bed, her hair pinned up with jewelled clips. Seneca's got the camera now and he's teasing her with it.

"_We're not here to film me, Sen," onscreen Effie whines. "We're here to see this." Effie places her hands on her lower abdomen where a small bump has begun to protrude. A fleeting smile crosses Effie's lips as she makes small circles with her fingers on the skin of her stomach._

I make sure to quickly reach for her hand as sobs rack her frail frame. "I'm so sorry, Effie."

"_What, this little squirt?" Seneca places a hand upon her own and places a kiss upon her rosebud coloured lips._

"_Our baby," Effie whispers almost inaudibly back._

And then the screen dissolves into darkness as the film ends.

"Our... baby," Effie manages tochoke out through sobs.

I can feel my own eyes beginning to prick with the tears that threaten to fall. "I never knew, Effie," I say. Because if it were one thing, I never did expect this once. If I did, the dummy wouldn't have happened.

"I was insensitive earlier, Effie. I'm sorry."

I try to lift her chin, but she refuses to meet my eyes. Her hands are placed over her abdomen, and I ask the question without really thinking.

"The baby?"

Effie's face, although she's now controlled, distorts in pain and I regret my words.

"Gone." Was all she can say in reply.

I hold her tighter as she rests her head on my shoulder. Tears stain my blouse, but I don't care.

"I'm glad you did what you did, Katniss."

"But-

"But?" She questions, a hint of anger reverberating through her voice. "But the Capitol forced an abortion on me!" She screeches. "Illegal! Punishable by flogging! And President Snow forced it upon me!"

Effie's pacing now, I can tell by her eyes she's disorientated. With each step, I see her falter and she finally falls to the floor as her knees lock with emotion. I catch her in my arms, already prepared with what might happen.

"When?"

"Mere weeks ago – before you were announced for the Quarter Quell."

I close my eyes and remember the day mother lost our little brother or sister through a miscarriage. It was just after father had died. Distraught, yes, very distraught, was what my Mother became.

"And they made me watch," she whispers on, "As they tied his hands behind his back and beat him. As they prolonged his death for hours on end, for entertainment, only to finally end by slitting his throat."

I feel physically sick as Effie confides in me. "And I sat holding him as they left the room, rocking him back and forth in my arms as I told him how much I loved him. He suffered so badly, so terribly," she squeaked on verge of tears again, "and I couldn't save him."

I kissed her hair, unsure of what to do but to just hold her still, like she did Seneca.

And Peeta never saw me that night, because I was trying to save another from the nightmares that plagued her. And during that time, as her eyes finally closed in exhaustion, I decided I would win this for the both of us.

**A/N – I know this didn't happen in the books, I just thought they'd go so well together – Effie and Seneca.**

**Anyways, Please Review! Feedback's always appreciated!**

**A/N (2) - Sorry if it feels that way, Smiles. I realise the similarities to your friends story now, but it wasn't intentional. I've read many SenecaXEffies stories, that I thought they were the perfect characters to write about. And believe me, this has been brewing in my mind for a few weeks. I've just never had the chance to write until now. **

**I used this particular chapter from _Catching Fire _because of the distress Effie comes across as being in, so again, not intentional! Believe me, I didn't realise until your review, the similarities.**

**Anyway, I've decided to make this a multi-chapter story based around love that has been "lost." The next chapter will be about Haymitch and his sweetheart, so this is just a beginning chapter so to say. **

**Thank you for the heads up, Smiles, but I didn't realise until now. Believe me, I wouldn't intentionally copy another's story!**

**Thanks, Katie1995 :)**


	2. Sweetheart

**(A/N – I do not own the characters or**_**The Hunger Games**___**in any way, all rights are reserved to**_**Suzanne Collins**_**.)**

**Sweetheart**

**Katniss' P.O.V**

Effie wasn't the only messed up person in my life. Seeking comfort in those around her, which of course, weren't many, Effie managed to keep her head above water, saving herself from drowning in the grief that threatened to consume her each day.

After that unfortunate night of becoming too nosey for my own good, Effie and I had developed some unspoken agreement; we would find comfort, resolve, in one another. It didn't matter whether we were at each other's throats, or fighting to keep nightmares at bay. Just those fleeting moments we would spend sat in each other's company helped us somewhat. And I watched gradually as Effie became the woman I knew from my first Hunger Games. Like Peeta, she would never be completely the same, but nearly there was better than completely lost.

Haymitch, however, is a different case.

I sit before the fireplace in the living room of my victor house. Haymitch promised he'd look after me, but I haven't seen him once for the past month. I don't know why I care so much. Maybe it's because he's the only one that really knows how I'm feeling. Maybe it's just because I miss having someone older to speak to. I don't really know.

So I sit here and watch as Greasy Sae comes in and out with her granddaughter twice a day, cooking and feeding me. Whether it's because she wants to, or is being paid for her services is unclear. However, I don't take it for granted. Not after everything else.

So I wait, but like every other day no-one else comes along. I sigh, pulling my quilt over me before making my way upstairs, my feet dragging up the stairs and causing me to trip. I'm use to it now, though, and so I'm unfazed with the bumps and scrapes I may earn from my daily clumsiness. Making sure I miss the mirror, I open my bedroom door. Something tells me that I'm being watched, but of course I brush the feeling off. I'm mentally disorientated, it says so – or it did before my medical bracelet was taken off.

I close the door, not bothering with the light switch. Instead I stand by the window where I can get a good view of the stars above. I begin to count them, determined to keep sleep away for as long as I can before it catches me in its trap like the net did Rue.

"Having fun, Sweetheart?"

I jump at the sound of Haymitch's voice, a defensive position coiling my muscles up like springs. How long has he been here? A day, hours, maybe even minutes?

I turn to stare at him long and hard. My eyes are hard, unpleasant and unhappy. If we were the last people on this earth – which nearly happened – I would never speak to him.

"You think you can just dump me here and leave?" I accuse, a finger pointing at him and then towards the door. "You think you're so mentally incurable that you can just pick that bottle up wherever you like and forget about the word?" I scream. "Well, victor of the second Quarter Quell, I have some news for you! You're not the only one who's lost those close to them."

A smile crosses his lips as he takes a swig from a liquor bottle I'm sure has been surgically attached permanently in his hand. "Whoopee-bloody-doo," he replies dryly but sarcastically. "I knew you could figure that out."

His comment furthers my anger so I'm stood right up close to him. The milky light the moon offers falls silently through the open window, illuminating ugly scars on my skin. "How dare you," I seethe, "just walking in here like you own the place."

"I thought it was my duty to take care of you," he drawls back in reply.

I scoff, pushing him backwards on his unsteady feet. "Well, sorry if I've misunderstood what "look after" means in your dictionary."

My comment seems to knock some sense into me and miraculously, Haymitch places the bottle on a set of draws next to him. I can tell I've hurt him somewhat, but then again, I hurt everyone.

"Sit," he orders.

I don't want to, but I do. Grabbing a chair from an unneeded desk, I sit opposite him and draw my knees up under my chin. "Come to justify yourself?" I ask, a fair amount of steel in my tone.

"No," came Haymitch's simple reply.

We stare at each other for what seems like hours, the moon reflecting off Haymitch's grey Seam eyes. My anger relents to a small diminishing flame and I relax back against the back rest of the wooden chair.

"Why are you here?" I ask, calmly.

Haymitch shrugs his shoulders, sighing. "No reason, I guess. Just lonely."

"Lonely," I agree.

Again, silence hugs us close. I push him away, needing a voice in the darkness. "Nightmares?"

Haymitch doesn't reply straight away. His eyes search my face, the only fortunate bit of my body that was saved from the flames. "Nightmares and memories."

We hear a distant whistle of a Mockingjay as we sit together.

"That's why you never sleep," he comments.

"That's why you never sleep," I shoot back just as quickly.

"Well, here's a starting point." Haymitch smiles again, but the patronising smile doesn't claim his lips. His smile is soft, almost comforting. "Peeta's like him old self; you're becoming the girl I knew, and me?" He pauses, picking up the bottle again, his fingers drumming on the glass bottle. "I'm the same depressed mentor I've always been."

"You were young once," I remind him. "Like Peeta. Like me."

He takes a long sip from the bottle now back in his hand. "Young and bitter."

I smile attentively, "Still are."

Haymitch gives me a throaty laugh, something I haven't heard nor seen before. It earns a small laugh of my own which catches me off guard. How strange it seems, that two people can find humour in such dire consequences.

"I have reasons to be, reasons that still plague me even though the person who caused this is dead."

I look around the room, unable to look into his eye, surprised that Haymitch has said so much through so little. "Reasons like losing your family," I counter, playing with the sleeve of my pyjama top. I look up from my top to see Haymitch staring intently at me. His eyes are watering, but I don't think it's tears.

Haymitch doesn't feel.

"It's over," he whispers, screwing and unscrewing the lid of the white liquor bottle. "But for you and me it carries on. Every night, everyday. It carries on through such innocent looking things; daffodils, roses, children. So really, we never truly forget."

"You miss her, don't you?" I question the drunk before me. "Like Finnick missed Annie, you miss her."

My mentor clears his throat and answers in a croaky voice. I take it he's trying not to cry. "There's no-one to miss."

"I miss Prim."

"Prim's different," he argues. "Prim was your sister. My sweetheart was an infatuation. Stupid of me, really."

His face grows old in the silvery light as he weighs his answer. I see him swallow and I suddenly feel angry with myself for asking such a personal question. "That was stupid of me," I say before he goes any further.

"Too forwards?" He laughs. "Well let me say something, sweetheart, I've been doing this my whole life."

And I recognise what if flickering deep within the pools of grey that make his eyes. He's pretending, like so many of the victors before him have done, that he's okay. That we're all okay. But he's not. And instead of letting his inner torture show, he drowns it in foul smelling booze, determined to lose himself in a bottle than rather face the day clear minded.

"Yes, I've been brash, and I know, Katniss. I still am."

I wrap my arms around my legs so I'm hugging my knees to me. My chin is rested on my knees and my eyes are trained on Haymitch's face. Crease lines appear on his forehead as he thinks things through. He seems distant, almost as if he's in a different place, which in his head, I'm sure this is true.

"Too brash, but I could be charming, too. At least that's what she told me." His hand clenches around the liquor bottle but he continues. "Annabelle, the previous Mayor's daughter. She was rich, well off, a world away from me, but still, she was there – reachable, touchable... loveable." He sighs, pushing himself up to sit properly on the chair. "And I fell for her, hard."

"But you were reaped." My voice seems too loud in the dark of night.

A sly smile passes his lips again as he nods. "Clever little thing aren't we?" He freely mocks, causing me to glare.

"Oh, you don't know half of it," I spit back. Because he didn't. No-one knew, maybe except Peeta, how I processed information. And in a way, yes, I was clever. Clever and lethal, because if it were one thing that continuously coursed through my veins, it was the continuing hate upon the people who killed my sister. But they were gone... and I was left, left to the coldness of this planet and the hate that can never truly diminish.

"But I do, because I was reaped. But things were never simple. You see, girl on fire, I had made an impression. And we were meeting in secret. Loving, caressing, caring for one another. The mayor would never know, or so I thought."

I remembered briefly how he told me of what his tactics earned him while he was on his victory tour. How they took his family and his sweetheart and killed them. How he arrived home to District 12 to no-one. How lonely he must have been, how much grief he would've faced.

"I should have never, never have done that, Katniss. How stupid I was!" He admits to my dismay. He throws the bottle to the floor making me jump as the glass splinters into a thousand tiny pieces. I watch as some rolls across the floor and as some get stuck into the wooden floor and drawers. "How I unknowingly defied The Capitol. How I used their own weapon against them. I never knew!" I hear the distress in his shaking voice and I want to comfort him. But how can I comfort someone so alike me? Someone who prefers to be alone to let nightmares consume her.

"And President Snow took advantage of me!" Haymitch captures my wrists in his strong hands, his face and inch away from mine. The alcohol fumes make me gag and so I resort to breathing through my mouth. What little I've eaten in the last past twelve hours will not come back up.

I push him away slightly as he regains his composure. "He did it to me too," I remind softly.

"They took me into a small room. Told me to sit down and be calm, but I knew it then, Katniss, that something was terribly wrong." He shakes his head in despair. "President Snow wasn't the only one to pay you a personal visit."

I watched his face pass through various degrees of anger, remorse and pain. This time, when he eventually continued, his voice was even and calm. It scared me that he could be so rational about something so terrible. It was a terrifying calmness, like the sea before a storm.

"He came in to that little room and sat down. A rose, that's what it was. Tucked neatly in his breast pocket was a white rose. It smelled of blood."

I know I've gone pale because I can feel my cheeks draining of colour. And Haymitch notices of course.

"But I didn't know, not until those last vital moments. I was so vain, Katniss. And I watched, the sixteen year-old me watched as they – President Snow – killed my family... killed my sweetheart." A strangled whisper leaves his parched throat and he can say no more. A tear rolls down his cheek, and I hope he's drunk because I know he hates pity.

I realise I'm crying too and I put my hand to my cheek, brushing away the tears, before doing the same to Haymitch. He draws back at first, hitting my hand away, but then, after some persisting, he relents.

"I can't lose you, Katniss," Haymitch whispers, my hand now in his. "You're the closest thing to a family I have."

It takes all my effort not to cry again as he pulls me into him. I hold him, like a mother would while comforting a child.

"What am I to you, Haymitch?" I ask, hoarsely. "Everyone is dead because of me. Why me?"

Contemplating his answer, his arms become tighter. "You remind me of her."

**A/N – I wanted to do a sensitive moment between Haymitch and Katniss. I think after the war, this is what both would feel like. Both Haymitch and Katniss lost so many, and really only they understand each other.**

**If you enjoyed this chapter, Please Review! **

**Thanks, Katie1995 :)**

**(P.S. Cinna will be the next chapter! :))**


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